


sky bound bodies

by Anonymous



Category: Ruse (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: One thoroughly insufferable eyebrow rose. “Yes?”(Archive)
Relationships: Emma Bishop/Simon Archard
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	sky bound bodies

**Author's Note:**

> /pumps fist in air. WRITING THEIR DAMN BANTER IN A SEX SCENE, I SWEARRRRR.

“Simon!”

Emma combed her hair back from her face, squinting through the whipping wind and driving rain for a glimpse of the broad-shouldered silhouette giving her so much trouble this cloudy and decidedly foul evening. She should be used to the trials and travails of working with Simon by now, but she wasn't enjoying it in this weather.

“ _Simon_!”

A large body drove inelegantly into her from the side and she was flat on the glassy, treacherous slope of the dome as a fist-sized piece of hail starred the glass behind where her head had been a moment before. “You should be inside,” Simon Archard said in her ear, which was frankly rich.

“I’d like to go on record as disapproving of this course of action!” she shouted against the wind. Her chilled lips were pressed against his equally cold cheekbone, but he didn’t try to convince her beyond the initial silly remark, instead gripping her elbow and helping her to climb.

“Noted,” he said – unhelpfully – and Emma cursed under her breath in decidedly unladylike gutter patois and hiked up a fistful of her skirts.

They more or less fell into the belfry, disturbing some hay and immediately losing the fresh thunderous hazard of the hail to a muffled and ominous discord in the background. “Thank god,” Emma said, patting her wet hair. Her voice was muffled by his greatcoat, sprawled across her body as he was, but he was keeping most of his weight off of her with braced arms. It was unlike him to pause, even so. “Simon?”

“Yes?” He pushed up on his elbow, looking around; her nose bumped his jaw and Emma squirmed briefly, aggravated, to get a better view not blocked by his broad shoulder. Sometimes the man could be quite a nuisance, not that she didn’t appreciate his providing a physical shield against the perilous chunks of ice.

He looked down at her, his turn to respond to her protracted silence. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Emma stared up at him, seeing the cutting flush on his cheeks from the wind, the droplets of water still starring his eyelashes until he impatiently blinked them away. “Did some of that hail hit you in the head?” she asked warily.

“You rarely let this amount of time go by without giving critical and unqualified commentary on my methods,” he said gravely. “I was worried you had perhaps received a stunning blow I had somehow missed.”

“Not at all.” She patted his shoulder, ineffectually sweeping off droplets of water. “I appreciate you jumping between myself and an impending concussion, though I must say – “

One thoroughly insufferable eyebrow rose. “Yes?”

“I must say that I had hoped for a slightly more restful venue on my honeymoon,” she said pointedly.

“Ah,” he said, apparently feeling not at all inclined to move from on top of her. “Might I remind you, Miss Bishop, it was your sentimentality that sucked us into this case in the first place. Far be it from me to not commit fully to any – “

“Far be it from you,” she echoed. “Yes, well. I don’t think he’ll be pursuing us up here – “

“I don’t think he’ll be pursuing anyone anywhere,” Simon noted, lifting his head and narrowing his eyes to look around them in the gloom, scanning their surroundings. “I believe Miss Cavendash had a great deal to...discuss with him.”

Emma tugged imperiously on the collar of his coat to draw his gaze back to her. “And I somehow don’t see us achieving that feather bed tonight, given the amount of slogging through the rain we’d have to do to reach the inn should we be foolish enough to brave the storm again tonight.”

Both eyebrows rose. He comprehended her meaning instantly; that was the handy thing about being married to a detective. “Why, Miss Bishop.”

Emma coughed. The delicate effect she was going for was somewhat ruined by the dampness and the involuntary shudder of her body, but she forged ahead nonetheless. “Straw is a classic,” she pointed out.

“I see,” he said. “Then by all means, let us get out of these wet clothes, shall we?”

Emma’s clothes were rather more complicated than his, and she thanked God and humane society that the bottom layers were merely damp; a classic or no, she was not looking forward to the unfettered experience of straw in personal areas.

He leaned over her gloriously shirtless and Emma once again appreciated the fact that she didn’t have to erect even the slightest pretension of not admiring the hard bulk of his shoulders and the flat, dusted musculature of his stomach. She trailed the back of her fingers up his ribs with languid interest and his breath came in subtly ragged.

She heard it, though, and smiled.

“Well,” she said, squirming. “At least put your coat down. Be a gentleman.”

“Indeed,” he said, leaning over her to reach around. His skin was damp and rain-chilled; Emma put her lips to his pectoral muscle, skimming her mouth over his skin until she could place a light, teasing bite above his nipple. The wool of his coat was against her shoulderblades in an instant and she rolled back agreeably, framing his hips with her knees and tugging impatiently at his drawers.

“Simon,” she said, exasperated.

“Allow me,” he said. His hands were on her thighs then, and then her behind; he lifted her up to adjust the lay of the coat under her legs and his thumb swiped at the juncture of her thighs.

Emma sucked in a ragged breath.

“Satisfied?” he asked with impeccable courtesy, his eyebrows raised as he leaned over her.

Emma narrowed her eyes up at him. “If you must ask the question,” she said sweetly, “perhaps I should be atop you.”

The chuckle rolled out of his chest and Emma felt her own smile breaking over her face; she pulled him in to kiss him again, greedily, their breaths mingling in the heated space between their mouths. His big, rough hands curved along her sides, thumb tracing the underside of her breast. He could probably feel her pulse speeding up; she made sure he could feel her hand and from the way his hips jumped forward and he uttered a startled oath under his breath, she hadn’t missed her mark.

“Well, Mister Archard?” she asked, rising off the ground just a little to trace unformed patterns on his lips with the tip of her tongue. “Shall we?”

In answer he kissed her again, deep and hot and decidedly impassioned. Emma sank back against his coat, satisfied, the straw buoying her body off the wooden planks and his body pressing her down with delicious weight. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her heels at the small of his back, and for a moment occupied herself merely with the heated interplay of lips and teeth and tongue, and the warm solidity of his hips between her thighs, the muscles of his back shifting under her exploratory fingers. It was no less enthralling for being a week less new, and her heart hadn’t quite quit pounding from the thousand-foot drop before it began pounding from his fingers angling under her shift to deftly circle her tightening nipple.

An impatient noise emerged from her throat before she was fully aware that she wanted more, and Simon responded ably, his lips trailing down her goosebump ridden throat. Emma gripped his shoulders, watching her knuckles whiten from under suddenly heavy lids. He dropped light, methodical kisses across her breasts until she was squirming, tongue tracing light lines of heat and then rapidly cooling dampness along the tender skin. The warmth of his body insulated her from the chill but also provided a stark contrast, and Emma was getting decidedly impatient because oh, his mouth, she knew exactly how lovely it could be and - 

“Simon,” she demanded roughly, and he closed his mouth around the peak of her breast and suckled, his knuckles tracing lightly over the ticklish, sensitive arch of her ribcage.

The growing heat and wetness and pressure made her groan, a guttural sound hooked out of her chest. Her hands ran over his shoulders, restlessly through his hair, her knee drawing up tight against his side. She murmured his name, and then said it aloud, and her nails traced down his arm and then dug into his elbow, directing his hand as he cupped her mound and dipped his fingertips against her, touching the heat and burgeoning wetness.

“Simon,” she panted. “This is not exactly the time and place for – “

His finger slid inside of her, thumb rocking with deft pressure against her clitoris, and Emma cut herself off with a pleased moan, her fingers flexing around his elbow and tightening into a vice.

“A little straw is no need to refrain from properly executing a task, Emma,” he chided, his voice low and rough despite its ostensibly professional tone. “Adaptation is key to a detective’s work.”

“Mmm.” Emma sounded a little strangled. Her wits were scattered, and she only managed to collect them because of the spike of need precipitated by her rolling her hips against his hand, altering the steady rhythm of his fingers. His mouth drew at the side of her breast, and then he kissed the line of sweat prickling at her breastbone. “Then we won’t bring straw into it at all,” she said raggedly. “Just hurry up.”

“Ah,” he said. “No romance in you at all, is there?”

Emma pushed up as he shifted back onto his knees, her palms sliding across sweat-slick skin, her mouth hungry on his shoulder, under his jaw, teasing circles across his cheek and landing finally at the corner of his mouth. He was divested of his drawers in record time and she fell back and dragged him with her. “No romance?” she panted. “I don’t know, Simon Archard, this seems a very – " She arched off the straw with a high, thin gasp as he pushed against her, sliding thick and warm into her body, his arm a warm hard bar at the small of her back to draw their hips more tightly together. She couldn’t think. She could only scramble for the meaning of her sentence, for the import of the words. " – romantic _and_ a good sport,” she mumbled distractedly against his skin – the rain drumming on the walls, the hollow feel of the air just waiting for the ominous toll of the hanging bell, the straw beneath the fine wool of his coat. His mouth on hers, lips surprising soft, and the way he smiled into the kiss – full, insufferably well-collected, and unutterably Simon. "Our kind of romance."

“I take it back,” he murmured. “You’ve returned to sentimental excess.” The next kiss was light, teasing, heart-achingly sweet. Emma smiled against his mouth and shifted her hands to grip his hips, control the slow shift of their movements.

“All in a day’s work,” she replied, and after that their mouths were bent to other tasks.


End file.
